


The Old Friend

by mychemicallyimbalancedromance



Series: Every Villain Thinks They Are A Hero [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Implied Johnlock, M/M, Old Friends, guess what they’re both even more fucked up now, john and seb served together, just fluff, met years later, mormor, no real romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 13:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18095585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mychemicallyimbalancedromance/pseuds/mychemicallyimbalancedromance
Summary: John and Seb used to be in the same regiment and now they’re both back in London and living equally fucked-up lives.One of their lives is more illegal than the other’s.They run into each other at a bar and depression occurs.





	The Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So this is a blurb I wrote based off of the shared headcanon a friend and I have that John and Seb could have served together...I thought it’d be fun to explore their relationship and what’s happened to both of them since they last met (let’s pray this doesn’t go on the list of good ideas that yielded terrible results). I might add another chapter or write more about Sherlock villains, we’ll see. Enjoy!

Such a git, damn him.  
John knew he was a high-functioning sociopath, as he so often reminded everyone around him, but that did not excuse his behavior. The fact was, John had stuck by him through thick and thin and Sherlock still referred to him as ‘idiot,’ ‘human,’ sometimes even ‘distraction.’ Can you blame him for feeling some resentment?  
Of course, he wasn’t as smart as Sherlock, no one was, but...he tried. He tried to help as much as he could and it wasn’t his fault that nothing he did was ever good enough for the Great Goddamn Detective.  
He fell onto a bar stool and ordered his usual, still lost in his own thoughts.  
He’d been spending more and more time here over the past few days; ever since Irene Adler died, Sherlock had gone back into his “mind palace” and came out only to play violin or yell at the television. Neither of these actions included John, so John went to the pub.  
A glass was placed in front of him and he automatically took a swig before realizing that this was not the drink he ordered. Great, the night keeps getting better. He glanced up and the bartender simply said, “From the gentleman in the corner.”  
A gentleman. In the corner. Had just sent John a drink. Damn it, why did everybody think he was gay? He sighed and steeled himself, ready to give the poor chap the regular “not gay” talk (he was getting quite good at it by now) and suddenly he was back in the barracks because the man sitting at the corner table was the same man he had slept next to in the barracks for over a year, the same man who had whispered dirty jokes during target practice to try to get John to screw up, the same man who had laughed the whole time John worked to get a bullet out of his leg...Sebastian Moran was staring back at him and grinning in the same obnoxious way he always had.  
The blond man chuckled and spoke, his Scottish accent clear as day, “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”  
John found himself answering before he could even think about, “Oh, sod off, you prick.” He laughed breathlessly and thought about how ridiculous this was. Them joking around already...after everything that happened, after… “What are you even doing here? I thought you’d gone back to Scotland.”  
Seb cringed and waved for John to come over to his table. “Well, I did go back...for a while. It didn’t go very well, so I moved to London after a month or so.”  
John sat down and swiped Seb’s drink. “What, Scotland had too much fried food for you?”  
His old army pal just grinned again. “I see you haven’t changed a bit.” He swiped the drink back and took a swig. “I hear you write a pretty good blog.”  
John choked. Damn his blog. “Oh, yeah...you’ve read it?”  
“Not really. My boyfriend’s obsessed with it, though.” He paused and it looked like he had to take a moment to slide his careless grin back in place. “That Sherlock Holmes sounds like a prat.”  
He was always clever, that Moran. “Oh, yeah. He is. An enormous prat.”  
It had been years and his grin hadn’t changed one bit. John wondered how Seb could have survived years of boot camp, Afghanistan, killing people, almost getting killed himself, and still come out of the ordeal with that same smile on his face. Well...not quite the same. He didn’t have Sherlock’s noticing abilities, but even he could see that something had changed about Seb. Before, his grin had been full of joy and mirth and pride and now...it seemed almost rueful. John cleared his throat.  
“Is that why you’re hiding out here?”  
“Yep. You know the key to solving a man’s life problems is getting pissed.” Seb laughed and even that sound somehow seemed more sad than happy. What had happened to him? “So...you’ve got a boyfriend.”  
“Oh. Yeah.” The other man rubbed the back of his neck and if John hadn’t known better, he’d say Seb was blushing. “Well, I mean...he’s not really a boyfriend, more like...a guy...that I’m seeing.”  
Another thing Seb deserved credit for: he had survived being a gay man in the army. “What’s his name?”  
“Uh, James.” Seb set his drink down, looked up, and changed the subject very quickly. “So, is that what you do for a living now? Write blogs and solve crimes? Sounds great.”  
“Well...I also work at a hospital...part-time.” His occupations sounded absolutely ridiculous, now that he thought about it.  
“Oh, that’s right, you’re a doctor. I forgot.”  
John gave him a look.  
Seb broke out laughing. “I’m joking, I’m joking. I’ve still got the scar from where you carved a piece of metal out of me.”  
He couldn’t stop himself from shuddering at the memory of crouching down behind a pile of rocks, his hands trembling, unable to find the tweezers, the bandages, anything, the feeling that he was about to let a man die… “Yeah...I don’t think I’ll ever forget that. Uh, what do you do?”  
“Oh.” The neck-rubbing was back. “It’s not nearly as glamorous as your job. I...do odd jobs here and there. A dishonorable discharge doesn’t look great on a resume, if you know what I mean.”  
“Right.” The discharge. That night when they had all woken up and found that Seb was missing…it had been almost a few days since he got shot and he was hobbling around on crutches. One of the others had shouted a slur at him and, before anyone could blink, Seb had his pistol out and the other man was on the ground clutching his arm. The court-martial had been brief; firing at another soldier was a serious offense and Seb had a history of not following orders. Five days later, he was sent home with an OHD (Other than Honorable Discharge).  
“Yep.” He grinned again, as if trying to convince both of them that everything was all well and good. “Well...I promised you I’d buy you a drink if both of us made it back...a promise is a promise.”  
“Yeah, I remember. Thanks.” He paused, took a swig, and considered leaving now and letting himself remember the joking, laughing Seb he had served with and not the broken man sitting in front of him now. But he knew all too well that none of them had been the same since getting back, so it was no point pretending. “Are you alright, Seb? Do you...need anything?”  
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Seb bristled and John could see old and new walls coming up. The smile was back, but it was forced and clearly hiding the embarrassment and anger and whatever else was going on in his mind. “No, no, that’s okay...I’ll be fine, I always am, aren’t I?”  
“Seb.”  
He was getting up now, clearly anxious to get away. Damn it. “I just...just remembered, I have to go. Sorry. It was nice to see you, Watson.” He gave John a small grin before putting on his jacket and starting to head out. Something in that last phrase - Nice to see you, Watson - made John feel unbearably sad...the way Seb had said it made it clear that they were never going to see each other again and the thought of that made him feel like he’d had the air knocked out of him. Possibly the only man who knew what it had been like...and their friendship would never be the same because of what it had been like. You couldn’t go through the shit they had been through and stay friends with the people you’d known before...John knew that, but…   
“How can I reach you?”  
Seb was halfway out the door when he turned back and looked at his old friend for a long moment, a sad smile on his face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, John.”  
“But-“  
All semblance of a smile disappeared and John drew back at the new expression that had come over Seb. The harsh, cold eyes and icy glare didn’t look like the old army pal John remembered...they looked like the face of one of the serial killers John had caught.  
He let out a tight grin. “I hope you never see me again, John. For your own good. I’m not the guy you remember.” Sebastian Moran turned around, shrugged his coat on, and walked out.  
John stared at the table in front of him and finished off the drink. He thought he’d cry if he still could.

 

“We have a new case.”  
John looked up from his morning coffee to see Sherlock walk into the room. For the first time in weeks, he was dressed in a (slightly rumpled) suit and his hair looked slightly less disheveled. It was pretty much a miracle. John set down his coffee. “What is it?”  
“My brother dearest wants us to track down a sniper.”  
“Sounds simple enough. What’s his name?”  
Sherlock walked briskly past him on his way to get his coat. “He’s Moriarty’s right-hand man and it sounds like they have something of a romance going on. Mycroft is hoping to use him as a hostage, but I doubt Moriarty really cares about him that much.”  
John got up and went over to get his own jacket on. “What’s his name?” He was used to his questions being ignored.  
Sherlock was tying his scarf. “Supposed to have the best aim in all of London.”  
His friend went to open the door and John slammed it shut. “For God’s sake, what’s his name, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock looked at him with a face that clearly said that John was an idiot. “Sebastian Moran.” He proceeded to open the door and walk out, not even glancing back.


End file.
